http://www.climatejusticefast.com/index.php/blog/ en paulrobertconnor@gmail.com Copyright 2010 2010-07-07T17:03:55+00:00 http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/a-change-of-pace/ http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/a-change-of-pace/#When:00:34:29Z I’ve been notably absent from the blogging scene, but not absent from the hunger strike. Thanksgiving break rolled around and gave me a chance to sleep ten hours a day, watch endless episodes of CSI, and beat New Super Mario World for the Wii on cooperative mode with my friends. It also brought me into close contact with an adopted second-mother who insisted I drink juice and/or broth.So, I did, and felt extraordinarily guilty. Cranberry-acai juice tastes like heaven after weeks without flavor. But it’s true. I can no longer be considered a water-only faster. Please don’t think my heart or passion has been displaced by this lapse. During break one day, my friends and I wandered around Borders, idly picking up eye-catching books and listening to Owl City through huge headphones. But I wasn’t doing well. My stomach roared ferociously, seizing my spine and raking the muscles in my back with angry fingers. You don’t know what you’re doing to your kidneys, a severe motherly voice rolled about in my head like a mantra. I sat down on Starbucks chairs and stood back up. I walked around frantically, trying to shake away the tiny spasms in my back as anxiety darkened my thoughts. Kidneys. Kidneys. My kidneys are collapsing. Panic quickly had its hold on me. Sucking in breaths and blinking back tears, I searched for my friends so I wouldn’t be alone. We left shortly after and stopped by the grocery store. “Will you at least drink some Vitamin water?” Colin asked me as we passed the sports drink aisle. “Uhm…” I paused for a long time, focusing on the words I had to say. I feel like a failure. “I’ll drink some regular juice.” I wanted to cry, but no one was making me feel guilty. We checked out with the maroon juice and drove to a generic Chinese restaurant so they could pick up dinner. “It will be 15-20 minutes,” said the man behind the counter, but I couldn’t wait to get home. My kidneys were collapsing! Desperate and still seized with panic, I walked out of the restaurant, tossed the water out of my Nalgene onto the dark parking lot pavement and poured in about a cup of juice. Gulping down all the cranberry goodness in one go, I felt immediately calmed. Later I found myself dry retching over the toilet; too much at once, I guess. And I didn’t need it…my mind was playing tricks. I feel like a failure. Over the rest of break though, I took small two ounce glasses of juice a couple times throughout the day. On Thanksgiving, I ate hot vegetable broth from a bowl. The warm smell of stuffing and pecan pie was at times unbearable, but the broth still felt good in my gut. I vowed, “Water only!” once I get back on campus, away from this mother. But a group of caring Hamilton students met me with a surprise on my first day back. “We’ll join you for a rolling fast, but you must agree to drink broth on your off days.” Overjoyed to have company, I consented. The more people who take a stand, the better. The broth only provides me with about 30-60 calories anyway, so the hunger is still pretty extreme. I’m hungry right now…today and tomorrow are my days on water only, and I miss the flavor. Please know friends and readers, how dire the situation is. People are starving. I am starving. The longer we wait to take action, the closer death draws. We cannot be idle about climate change or justice for the poor. It is inhumane. For now, I am hopeful. At the very least, Obama has heard the demand and is going to Copenhagen. It feels like a small victory. 2009-12-05T00:34:29+00:00 http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/hunger-fatigue-and-parties/ http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/hunger-fatigue-and-parties/#When:06:05:39Z Naps are of a questionable nature. I don’t like naps because they eat daylight, I and generally don’t take them. In fact, if I were a super hero, I would be adenosine triphosphate girl with boundless energy!But today I took a nap. I was tired because a shrill fire alarm forced me from my bed into the chilly November air at two o’ clock this morning. This afternoon, whilst laying my heavy head upon soft pillow for a quick siesta, I set my wristwatch alarm for a maximum rest time of one hour. Unfortunately, the tinny artificial beeping was not enough to rouse me and I remained unconscious for three hours straight. I would have missed my second class had someone not been stomping so needlessly and incessantly up and down the stairs outside my room. The weekend exhausted me, I suppose. After watching the play The Learned Ladies in our tiny, but darkly pleasant campus theater, I trailed my dear friend Colin to the cast party. Cast parties follow every major production and are notoriously, wildly extroverted. The darkness of a small hot room quickly submerged me where actors’ drunken, carefree bodies and bare backs slid by my face in between throbbing beats of music and flashes of a strobe light. Sucked in by the pulsating atmosphere, I lifted my legs and swayed meekly in a rather pathetic attempt to dance. The attempt was short-lived and the weight of early morning fatigue drew me away from the dance floor into the lighted kitchen. It was already two in the morning. People took turns there tilting a plastic bag pregnant with maroon Franzia into their mouths and chugging as long as possible. An abandoned box of cold pizza laid on the table. Occasionally, a happy, half-clothed girl would sweep by, grab a slice, and chomp on its apex clumsily. Actors are perhaps my favorite people. Alas. Pizza and alcohol: two things which become extraordinarily tempting in such an environment. I’m no saint, but by necessity, I could not indulge in either. I’m underage anyway and pizza is in no way a vegan food product, I told myself… Some comfort at least. Later, as the partiers broke out Twister, Colin noticed my heavy eyelids and kindly led us out.   Why was I “wasting” energy at a party?, one might ask. Because staying locked in my dorm on a weekend is thoroughly boring. I like people-watching though and that’s mostly what I did. On Monday (which is the day I intended to post this blog), I went to the Health Center to get a vaccine to protect against the H1N1 virus. Multiple campus emails emphasized that this batch of shots was only for immuno-compromised students. The nurse practitioner told me last week that I am immuno-compromised because of the fast, so I thought I might get one, but because I am voluntarily compromising myself, they turned me away. So I’m still at risk for the deadly swine flu. Duh-duh-duh! It’s reasonable though. I understand their logic perfectly. A study in the scientific journal Nature linked climate change to an increased spread of diseases. People in developing nations already have little or no access to adequate medical care, and increased numbers of diseased people certainly won’t help the often dire situations. More and more people will be turned away from hospitals, refused basic medical care, and denied cheap vaccines. More people will die. I’m not really afraid of the swine flu, but it does flirt darkly along the fringes of my mind. There’s a chance I could get it, a chance I could be hospitalized. Malaria, rift valley fever, and dengue hemorrhagic fever aren’t lingering over me like Death though, as they might linger psychologically and realistically for those people in areas with no doctors or hospitals. They bear a burden so much greater… And thank you all for your lovely comments. I greatly, greatly appreciate the support. 2009-11-18T06:05:39+00:00 http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/student-life-goes-on/ http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/student-life-goes-on/#When:04:27:16Z A phone call jarred me suddenly from my intense concentration, and, shaking film analysis from my head, I glanced from my laptop screen to the raucous cell phone on my desk. An unknown, local number appeared. I grabbed the phone and rushed out my room to the staircase in hopes of getting semi-decent reception. “Hello?”I answered. “Hello, is this Mikayla?” an adult woman’s voice asked. “Yes, it is.” “Hi, this is Nancy Thompson, the Dean of Students.” Surprised that the Dean of Students was calling my cell phone, I listened carefully. “I am calling about your hunger strike and was wondering if we could meet sometime this afternoon to talk about it? There are some things I feel that, as the dean, I should know and talk to you about.”    I agreed readily, but we had to settle on 1 ‘o clock tomorrow because my afternoon today was full of classes. I’m not sure what we’ll talk about, but I’ve got my fingers crossed that she’ll be supportive. She heard about the strike yesterday when I went to the Diversity and Social Justice coffee hour. I entered the Glen House yesterday afternoon, the scent of coffee and sliced pumpkin bread causing my stomach to moan, and settled into an absorptive couch away from the fireplace. For awhile, the conversation focused on campus activism and the college’s attitude towards it. “Is there an ethic of caring here?” they asked. I listened quietly for about half-an-hour, then feeling pressured by the time and an upcoming practice session with the Brass Ensemble, I diverted the conversation away from the nature of activism to activism itself. A deep breath as the facilitator called on. “All this about the ethic of caring, and the effectiveness of activism is really important to me right now because I’m…I’m sort of embarking on my own journey of activism,” I explained. Usually, I get nervous talking in front of people, but this group was welcoming, and the calmness of my voice encouraged me to press on.   “I’m going on a hunger strike for the sake of climate justice issues. The premise of the movement is based on the fact that the planet is warming and this warming will have adverse effects, especially on the global south. Of course, the global north will experience the consequences too, but the global south will disproportionately bear the burden, even though they contributed the least.” The room had grown quiet. My neck and ears warmed. My comparative literature professor leaned forward, her eyes intent on me, her eyebrows pushed down in intrigue. “Anyway,” I continued (despite my body kicking into defensive mode), “this is the sixth day of my fast and my intention is to go until the end of the Copenhagen Conference. I guess I’m here because a lot of this movement’s success depends on people knowing and caring about the issue. I guess I came because I thought you’d care and might be able to help.” A brief silence followed. Then several people chimed in. The room quickly filled with comments of support, encouragement, and ideas. “You came to the right place,” said one senior woman. “We have connections.” Another girl, raised her hand and said, “You know, I might even join you for awhile.” My spirit soared. My group of supporters! After a few minutes of brainstorming, I unfortunately had to excuse myself, but thanked them sincerely and added my name to the Social Justice Initiative list serve. There is an SJI meeting pending in my future…Today, a couple members followed up with me. Thank God for responsible people. Otherwise, my life as a student goes on. I don’t know what interests the general blog-reader, but things happen every day about which I could write. I met with my academic advisor today and frustrated her. During our meeting, I pulled from my book bag a long list of interesting-sounding classes and from my head little idea about my intended major. “Mikayla,” she said. “I can’t give you much guidance when you haven’t picked out a major and have such long list of classes.” *Sigh* I can’t help it. There are so many things to learn and so many ways to learn about them. How am I supposed to focus? I guess I’ll think about it this weekend… Our school’s friendly Muslim cleric hosted a drumming event this evening, and thinking it might be relaxing to beat on a drum I trudged up three flights of chapel stairs to the warm, couch-filled upper room. The five of us sat around a table (laden with cheesy, golden, shimmering, aromatic pizza) and beat out rhythms on the cone-shaped Middle Eastern drums. Dum-tek-dum-dum-tek-e-tek-tek-dum. The hand-thumping was meditative, but an obligation to work interrupted the session. Tech crew: the job I proudly hold on campus. I help set-up and run stage, lighting, and sound for concerts/events on campus. Tonight Zee Avi played at our bi-monthly Acoustic Coffeehouse. She’s got a beautiful, liquid voice, and tonight, I got paid to enjoy the music. The scent of freshly baked brownies, warm chocolate chip cookies, and cinnamony chai tea made it difficult to focus entirely on her voice though.  But such is life. I still feel pangs of hunger. -Mikayla 2009-11-13T04:27:16+00:00 http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/trombone-and-contemplation/ http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/trombone-and-contemplation/#When:04:54:48Z Trombone-less, I dropped to the floor outside the dressing room where I take my trombone lessons. John, my lesson teacher, had taken the news of my hunger strike very well and decided we should work on the mental aspects of musicianship for our last three lessons of the semester. God bless his soul. Shooting lungfuls of air through yards of metal tubing and yanking a slide back and forth can be tiring.At 11 o’clock, the door swung open to reveal his ever-welcoming face. He’s young, freshly-employed, and optimistic. As I sat down quietly beside him, John leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.   “I’m intrigued by this,” he told me. “We don’t usually get to attack music from a theoretical and mental perspective.”   We talked about the power of the mind for awhile and swapped stories about the placebo effect. In one study, he explained to me, a group of maids were told their work was very good exercise and another group was told nothing. The group told that were told their work was good exercise quickly lost weight. The other group lost little to nothing. In another study, two groups of forty-year olds were being taught a new language. The first group was told that at around age 40, the brain experiences a “renaissance of the mind” that makes learning easy. The second group was told nothing. The first group was soon eight weeks ahead of their peers in their study of the language. John concluded, “You have to know in your mind what sort of music you want and not let your body get in the way of that music.” We spent the next forty-five minutes analyzing a song melodically, harmonically, rhythmically, orchestrally, and by its range and form.   Indeed, the mind is extraordinarily powerful and subject to influence. People suggest things and they stick.   This fast becomes burdensome, not because I’m hungry and my muscles feel weak, but because the people who I love the most refuse to support me. It’s very heavy. The twinkle leaves their eyes when they draw close, their voices become solemn, and they remind me in small ways that they disapprove of my action. They list everything that could happen to me. I could do permanent damage to my kidneys, my heart could fail, I could go blind, I could fail my classes, I could get keytoneacidosis, or die in my sleep. They don’t believe what I’ve set out to do is physically possible. “I’ve done my research,” they say. “You just can’t make it that long.” They tell me I’m stupid and irrational.   I hear these things and they’re difficult to bear. The negativity sucks my energy away and leaves me feeling empty. I carry their words with me when I walk across campus, climb stairs, open doors, sit down or stand up. You’re wrong, you’ll die, you’re silly, I don’t support you.   They don’t understand; I’m set on doing this and they can’t change my mind. Climate change is serious and urgent enough to do something as serious as fast. The situation is dire. Look at me! I don’t like being hungry, but I know this issue is so important that I have to stand and say, “I won’t stand for this anymore.” I’m doing and expressing my dissatisfaction in the most significant way I can.     Maybe they don’t realize that the more often they suggest I’ll suffer, the more likely I will. Fantasies of losing my sight and having a heart attack run through my head. Maybe they’d feel satisfied to know their comments make me heavy with thoughts of death. But they won’t change my mind. I’ve already agreed to drink liquid juices if things start to go awry. What further comfort can I offer them?   I wish there was a group of people cheering me on, saying, “We know you can do it and thank you!” I need some positive reinforcement. But I’m being too dramatic because there are a lot of people who say they support me and will do anything to help. They are close to me too. Still, the closest have removed themselves the farthest.   A bright moment last night though! My spirit soared upon finding an email in my inbox from a dear but distant friend. He wrote, “I was reading your proposal on Facebook [where I posted my hunger-striking intentions] and I am impressed. However, some of your friends have terrible comments that pissed me off. Cheating the system? Anyway, keep up the good work and let me know you need any help.” His support means more to me than he knows. Ah, the sweet flavor of vindication!   Maybe I should start meditating. I know what I’ve set out to do, and now I can’t let my body or mind get needlessly in the way.   -Mikayla 2009-11-11T04:54:48+00:00 http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/a-three-day-saga/ http://www.climatejusticefast.com/blog/entry/a-three-day-saga/#When:19:09:23Z Today is day 4 of the fast. This blog is a bit long, but only because it covers my activity for the past three days. Fear not, reader! Future blogs will be shorter should you finish this one and happen to read later ones.Last Thursday, I journeyed from my quaint and quiet little college in central New York to the madness and bustle of the Big Apple. It's always a shock to sit for four hours in the muted interior of tin can train and emerge into the chaos of bright, big, loud New York. I power-walked through the city’s dark, hotdog and gyro-scented air from Penn Station to Port Authority, eventually meandering through the mall-like station to the bus I would take to Ted Glick's house in a suburb of New Jersey. Ted (another faster), me, and some of his friends planned to hold a climate justice vigil outside the United Nations building the next day, on Friday the sixth.   I arrived and despite the lateness of the hour (nearly midnight), Ted and his wife Jane greeted me warmly and offered me my last meal before the fast: bowtie pasta with spinach and tomato, acorn squash soup, and cold, organic apple juice. (Fantastic!) Ted sat with and told me about his adventures as an activist as I quietly nodded my head in awe between bites of soup. Who would have guessed this mellow man had been tear-gassed four times by the police?   The next afternoon we set out for the city and arrived in front of the UN building at two o’ clock, banners and posters in hand. This marked the most awkward and transitional moment of all. The normal street corner was going disinterestedly about its usual business, but we, people with posters and a purpose had come to spread out and disrupt its routine. As the large "ClimateJusticeFast.com" banner unfurled between Jane's and my hands, I was suddenly catapulted from a quiet supporter to a public protester. Fortunately, the lurching, transitional awkwardness vanished quickly as more supporters showed up to hold posters and passing cars honked in support.   This was day one. Hunger pangs grated my stomach all day. The cold air gnawed on my toes and fingers until they started going numb from standing in one spot and gripping the posters. But I was in cheerful company and ever-encouraged by the honks of passing cars. It was fun.   I stayed the night at Ted’s again and spent the next day killing time. Dry, brown leaves blanketed his massive back lawn in a thick layer, so Ted, Jane, and I spent the morning raking and dragging them away. My arms burned, the same hunger clambered in my gut, and I thought wistfully of the non-shedding, evergreen trees back in Washington. Later, I departed Ted and Jane’s house laden with sincere, warm wishes and returned to the city to meet a group of students from my school who’d come down to New York watch the musical Avenue Q. The show was hilarious, although a bit unsettling. Puppet sex is sort of awkward, but at least they had no lower bodies…   The other students and I boarded the bus and arrived back at quaint little Hamilton around two a.m. I dragged myself sleepily to my dorm room and crashed until 8:45 the next morning. Thus, passed day number two.   Day number three was the worst. At the sound of my alarm, I stumbled clumsily out of bed and groped my way down the hall to the shower with bleary-eyes. My arms and legs felt so weak! Lifting the shampoo bottle and scrubbing head caused burning sensations in my arm muscles. I usually enjoy showers, but this was tiring! I dried off, pulled on my Sunday best and walked quickly across campus to meet the members of our school Brass Ensemble. We were traveling to a church in Rome, NY to play for the service that morning. The walk was miserable. I’d forcibly swallowed some water before I left and felt nauseous, like I was constantly on the verge of vomiting. The terrible aftertaste of whole food vitamins singed the back of my throat, and my legs felt heavy and useless, seizing and burning as I strode across the grass and pavement. Couldn’t be slow or late.   Fortunately, hunger pangs replaced the nauseating symptoms within an hour and a half, and my legs warmed up to moving around. In fact, by the time we were driving back to campus, I felt positively chipper. A soft vibration buzzed suddenly on my thigh and I pulled out my phone to check the text.   “Hey Mikayla,” my roommate said. “I wasn’t sure when you were coming back and I put in a loaf of bread to bake. I’m sorry if it bothers you but I couldn’t move it downstairs…”   She holds her precious bread maker dear. How could I possibly deny someone as bubbly as my red-headed roommate her gluten-free bread? “No, it’s totally fine. Doesn’t bother me at all. You bake your bread,” I replied, punctuating the statement with a smiley-face.    But good God! As soon as I entered my dorm building, the scent of freshly baked bread wafted down from the second story. I hopped up the stairs towards my room, and ran into her boyfriend as he exited our room with two slices of bread in hand.   “Would you like some?” he asked me in his friendly, Romanian accent.” “I can’t,” I replied with a smile. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, heading downstairs.   Inside my room, the smell of bread saturated the air. Half a loaf of the golden, delicious bread sat in the window sill.  I approached slowly, hovered over it, and lowered my face next to it so the soft, fleshy interior warmed my cheek. I tilted my head towards the loaf ever so slightly and drew in a sudden, raucous breath, taking that bread as close to my stomach as I could. Ahhhh. It was overwhelming. I inhaled its scent over and over, but knew I couldn’t eat it. Maeve would be freaked out if she knew I’d assaulted her bread in this way.   It sucks to be hungry. It really does. Why then, am I making myself hungry? Because there are people who don’t have a choice about being hungry, who are hungry now and will continue to be hungry if climate change runs rampant and is allowed to destroy their sources of food and water. They’ll starve to death. It sucks, and this is what it feels like.   -Mikayla 2009-11-09T19:09:23+00:00